Portrait of her Heart
by Miss Minerva
Summary: A look into the life of Relm Arrowny, years after the defeat of Kefka. A flambouant, fitful girl with a not-so-thriving art career. Also deals with her thoughts on her missing father.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **These are not my characters. They are the sole propertyof Squaresoft. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of storytelling. ****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Prologue**

  
  
  
  
  
  


She wrote the words.

  
  


"Dear father"

  
  


Then turned, like a leaf in the stolen autumn breeze. Wildly. Discarding the sheet of paper like it was infected with some curse. Indeed, it was.

  
  


She had written this letter a million times.

  
  


"Dear father, I don't know who you are."

  
  


"Dear father, I don't know why you left."

  
  


"Dear father, Wherever you are...."

  
  


No. The words were never right. The ink was never black enough. It never had enough of a stain to show the darkness of her heart. The blank spot; the hole. That empty pit deep inside her spirit where she had locked away his face. The key had been discarded long ago. She didn't remember what he looked like. Some days she didn't even care. Other days she choked on it. Other days...

  
  


"Dear father, I've never had a heart because of you. I've never had the words to tell you. You've never heard. It's as well you have no ears for all the good you'd be."

  
  


But the letter would be erased, destroyed. Flung into the pile like all the others. Another unspoken word. Another clump to be added to the massive, swelling void. How she longed to gather all these words, set them ablaze. Watch the syllables melt in the inferno of her confusion.

  
  


She had long given up on words. They held no meaning. No comfort.

  
  
  
  


The truth was written in her displays of paint and colour. Her art. Something non-readable. Something dusty, jagged, indistinct. A medium to catch her outpouring confusion. A confusion of colour and line. It helped, but still the paint would never be bright enough. The ink never black enough.

  
  


While she waged war on her words, her blackened pit of feeling, the paint landed in mysterious shapes. She wasn't painting with a vision. She painted to feel the paint on her hands, wet and cold. She drew pictures to have something tangible, that she could hold. Something that would never leave. These drops of colour and light landed in strange patterns, shaping out her portrait.

  
  


The portrait of her heart.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Her Eyes

**Disclaimer: **These are not my characters. They are the sole propertyof Squaresoft. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of storytelling

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Chapter one 

**"Her Eyes"**

  
  
  
  


"No, no, no! It isn't fair at all! I went through all that trouble, and for what? Not a damn cent! I've just about gone delirious over it these past weeks. What's it called? Carpal tunnel syndrome? I wasted all that time and now I demand my satisfaction!!!" 

  
  


The girl with a sharp ruddy face, petite frame, was screaming. Her anger a rusty blade. Her hair was dishevelled in all manners of shapes. Presently one strand was magenta and another blue. Tomorrow it could be green or orange, dictated by her mood. (Which slowly, yet violently, swung like an old iron pendulum) Her clothes fell off her tiny frame in awkward shapes and bunches, the effect heightened by the array of colours and patterns they held together. From her ears hung several sets of dangling earrings, none matching. The few long strands of hair that had not managed to escape were held back by a thin plaid cloth that flew loose in the breeze. Her eyes were green and now quite seeming to be filled with bees. Wet, angry bees.

  
  


"Do you have any frigging idea how long it took me to sort this out for you? How many brushes I've had to wash in turpentine? It doesn't smell like roses, dammit! How many times my cat went hungry because I was too busy slaving over THIS? Look at it you, you blind bungler! It doesn't take a genius to see how much time went into the composition here!". 

  
  


The owner of the gallery stood with his legs crossed, arm on table. He was much like a flimsy stick holding up the weight of the girl's rage. Her words were barbed, cutting into the flesh if you moved the wrong way. She had quite a mouth on her, he thought. Too bad nothing pretty came out, or else she would have been interesting. With her onslaught nearly over, as it seemed, he tried to dispel her fury. He was sorry that he didn't have some sort of club with which to bash her over the head.

  
  


"Sorry ma'am. We don't have any place in the show for...." 

  
  


He fingered through her stack of clumpy paintings. The shock of colour and odd angles at which the faces shifted were garish to his eye. In his refined experience, they fed this to the trash. Nobody puts that onto paper, unless it's the rejected one they use to test the colours. He would rather swim through a sea of bloody daggers than call this art.

  
  


"This." He snivelled in disgust.

  
  


"Asshole!! You wouldn't know art if it bite you right in the ass!" 

  
  


She grabbed the erratic display of paint and charcoal in one clean sweep of her dusty little hands. The man at the counter leapt back as if a large angry cat had lashed out at him. Turning quickly to go back behind the reception booth he built up a thick defensive wall around his fright, but not before she caught it and let go at him with another verbal assault.

  
  


"Yeah, you'd better run! Goddess blessed, you might get hit in the head by the Siren! You might just fall into a bowl of paint and actually find out what colour is all about! Cowardly bastard!"

  
  


He was out of earshot now. Her rage emitted from her like a bright red light. She began a cruel laugh, deep in her stomach. It engulfed her in the ridiculousness, the hopelessness of the whole thing. She considered knocking over the booth with one good swift kick from her combat boot. Like a roundhouse, or something. Yeah.

  
  


She let it go, reconsidered. Her grandfather preached about anti-violence, all that crap. Some good it has done his life, she fumed. If she wanted her teeth floating in a glass at night she was going to at least have the dignity of beating them out herself. The slow gentle life was not the way. Yeah, knock your teeth out just to avoid being pretty was more her style. Live lively, die quickly. Content to have given it her all. 

  
  


Completely pissed, she turned away from the art fair. People had begun to stare. Then again, when one floats through town like an angry swarm of multicoloured bees you expect people to take notice. She was used to leaving a trail of eyes and confusion in her path. It suited her. She drifted fluidly from the centre of town. From the alleyway outside the tavern, she could hear nothing but the laughter of the drunken sailors. Something concrete to drown out the mutterings of the art critics. 

  
  


"Bunch of narrow-minded sheep," she reminded herself. "What do they know?!" Her own words echoed through her head.

  
  


Wouldn't know art if it bit them in the ass.

  
  


Relm sat in the alley; alone. A few quiet tears fell from her eyes like dew on a quiet morning, first of winter. Like hailstones. She fancied her tears like that, cold, frozen, only falling briefly. Most people only see snow fall once or twice in their lifetime. None are any luckier with her. A brief, passing discomfort, like birthing a baby. Emotions bothered her like that. Something like a thorn in your foot. A loud squealing baby. Pain, vulnerability. Not much else.

  
  


The sun was high. It was going to be one of those days. Cloudless. Warm. Serene. Completely useless. Nothing to do but paint and think.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Her Hands

**Disclaimer:** These are not my characters. They are the sole propertyof Squaresoft. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of storytelling****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Chapter Two**

  
  


**"Her Hands"**

  
  
  
  
  
  


The brush, shaped from an old twig, was outlining the form of a girl. The girl had dark flowing hair, thick from a caring hand; soft brush. She had deep blue eyes that set off her well defined, sandy face. The brush traced her outline eloquently. The lines were smooth and curving gracefully. The colour was a warm flesh. The hand that moved it did not shake. The fingers were holding the brush with medical precision. The resulting shapes, though, weren't quite as medically correct.

  
  


"If Mom finds out what we're doing up here she'll kill me. She'd kill you. Have your head."

  
  


"I think she'd scream first. Like a little pre-pubescent girl. She's weird like that, Aisha."

  
  


"She'd think we were dykes."

  
  


"Yeah, probably."

  
  


"I can't believe I'm letting you do this here. I must be going nuts. It's crazy."

  
  


"Lots of things in life are crazy. Live a little."

  
  


Relm flicked a fushia strand from her face, streaking her cheek a deep pink shade. On the bench across from her, Aisha was posing for her. Yes, her mother would indeed be angry if she found them, for she was wearing nothing but the crimson of her cheeks. Aisha's mother being possibly the least liberal person in the whole town, and Relm assumed, possibly even the whole world. Aisha shuffled her position in the chair a little uncomfortably. She was a little worried, but hey, what are friends for? So what if her mother ended up thinking she was gay?

  
  


"Hey, don't belittle me. I'm the one that has to live with her." Aisha rubbed her hand across her shoulder, cold. The skin prickled with goose bumps. 

  
  


"Nudity is a pure form. It's essential to a work of art."

  
  


"Try telling it to Mother."

  
  


"I'm going to ask her to pose for me too, later."

  
  


"Oh yeah! Well done. Let me pack my bags first!"

  
  


"You really need to relax." "Put your arms back . . . Like this" Relm gestured her upper body in a practised stance, hands outstretched. Classical, very classical, she thought. It will make a fabulous painting. Aisha complied and settled into the pose, began to relax a little. 

  
  


"Maybe next time we should do this at your place." Aisha suggested. Or outdoors maybe, she thought. How nice to lie naked in the soft grass . . . 

"Oh no." Relm countered. "The old man will get in our way. He's always running about there with some bunch of old coots. Senility loves company, as they say." She dipped her brush into some rich amber pigments. Blending carefully, she produced the perfect shade to create her friends skin tone. Smooth. Rich. Like butter cream.

  
  


"You don't go home much anymore."

  
  


"No. I s'pose I don't. Would you?" She rubbed her hands together to remove the excess paint on them, wiping the remaining loose paint into her pants. White pants, or at least they had been white at one point. "Thamasa is a ghost town. A shitty little port town now. Not even connected to the Greater Continent. Who would want to live there? Certainly not me." 

  
  


"I think it's so romantic though. About the magic that used to be there."

  
  


"Key word being used-to, babe. Ain't nothing there even the slightest bit romantic now."

  
  


"Yeah, I guess." Downstairs there was a rustle. A slamming door, followed by a cacophony of house-noise. Barking dogs. The kitchen rattling.

  
  


"Oh shit."

  
  


"Not a problem, chicky! I'll just slip this canvas into this wooden case. . ." Relm was obviously prepared for this, Aisha could see. She produced a makeshift canvas-holder that appeared to be constructed from willow branches and chewing gum. The sign of a true artist. Relm's hands worked fast, nimbly slotting everything together. There. Done. She wasn't one to waste time. Aisha was nearly as agile, pulling her last arm into her jacket as Relm threw the whole thing over her shoulder.

  
  


"Now what? I'll meet you outside?" Aisha shot her a look of inquiry, knowing the girls habits. Knowing her mother wouldn't want the so-called "street urchin" in her house. She reached toward her multicoloured arm. Paisley and butterflies. The fabric soft, like denim.

  
  


"Yeah. Sure thing." And out the window for her. Trails of braids and blue and turquoise were the last signs she left.

  
  


Outside, she pulled herself down the tree and a safe distance away from the house. She settled down on a street corner, among the dust and random flotsam. Her constructed case yielded her work for inspection. Nice. Very nice. The tones had blended perfectly. Those art snobs ought to like this, she snickered. It was beautiful, she grinned, but not quite tame. Aisha was the perfect model. The girl had good spirit, Relm determined. A fine lass. They were like two peas in a tornado, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

  
  


Relm surveyed the town, shielding the bright noon sun from her eyes with her free hand. Jidoor, she thought, was a fairly nice town. A lovely art community, if an elite one. And Relm, well, she had no time for the opera. Romantic nonsense. Smut. But this place, it was a serene one. Maybe too calm. She simply loathed routine and was probably going to head towards Zozo soon. Yeah, the old man would hate that, would he? Perfect.

  
  


She absent-mindedly picked at a paint stain on her boot, purple. The finish was marred but she wasn't polishing it anytime soon. She was no army freak. All those crazy cats, with their airship, they wouldn't have either. But they were freaks too, weren't they. Relm had no time for it. She began picking at her loosely polished nails. Three days old. Burgundy. The chips fell unto her lap, like tiny ladybugs. Pretty, tiny ladybugs. She smiled. Inhaled the warm Jidoor air. Dust and grass. Flowers and ale. And what was that? Oh yeah. Something like petroleum.

  
  


She looked up from her careless picking as she heard Aisha approaching. She smiled. Got to her feet. Aisha was laughing, her face beaming. Great day, this was going to be. Not bad. She greeted Aisha and they headed off into town together. 

  
  
  
  


  
  



	4. Her Feet

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. They are the sole propertyof Squaresoft. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of storytelling

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Chapter 3**

  
  


**"Her Feet"**

  
  
  
  
  
  


The sunset was a purple-silver monstrosity. With feet like broken glass, the girls eyed it. Didn't quite believe it. Wasn't what they had expected. The tall narrow buildings shaped the horizon a jagged edge. A puzzle-piece nightmare. These dark silhouettes stood stoically against the garish twilight, promised them that Zozo was near. Relm hadn't seem these walls for years, and even when she had, she didn't recall them being quite so lonely. The mountains blended with the rooftops, a harsh jagged margin. 

  
  


Aisha had agreed to come to the town of Zozo with Relm but now nearly there, she was reconsidering. What is this place? Why is the sight of it making her blood run cold? Like ice shards in a knee-deep bucket. She eyed Relm, her now deep-blue bangs plastered to her forehead. Moisture-soaked. Travel-worn. The exhausted girl, her butterfly girl, looked up. Caught her gaze. "We're not going back. No way." She grinned, deeply. Stroking her aching vermillion shoulder. "Nothing to worry about. It's not like they say it is."

  
  


"You're always so sure." Aisha stopped for a moment to re-tie her shoelace. Deep mauve rider boots, knee-high. The laces leaked cold tears as she pulled them through her fingers. "But I can see in your eyes that it's not what you believe."

  
  


"Fiddlesticks. Fiddleheads. Fiddletops." Relm bantered. Rolled her eyes. "Listen, Aisha. I'm not about to go back. Live for the moment, babe! Let it all go."

  
  


"Yeah." She absently brushed her damp white sleeve, readjusted her straps, and gazed apprehensively at the horizon. It was turning deeper purple. Like cough syrup. The clouds growing thicker. More menacing. "I guess it's this or going home to have Mother chew me out for something or other."

  
  


"Exactly." Aisha notices her boots are being sucked into the deep reddish-brown soil. Pores of water forming, spilling around the thick leather.

  
  


"Well, let's keep moving then. I want to get out of the rain." She pulled a boot free. The noise is suction. Sloorpe-stuhch. The sound of angry soil. "Are you sure you know a decent place to stay?"

  
  


"Positively!"

  
  


"Great. Lead the way."

  
  


Rain. The rain hit violently into windows, breaking its stride, falling lifeless to the dirty streets below. There they formed deep grey pools, that dictated the flow of pedestrian traffic, which was of course, minimal. Pools formed into rivers and the streets were indeed covered in them. It always rained in Zozo, no question. The dark clouds never lifted; a permanent helmet of gloom. The rain was cold, dark, painfully welcoming. The rain was ever present. 

  
  


"Does it always rain here?"

  
  


"Looks that way."

  
  


The two figures appeared in front of an inn window. Inside, the reception lady could see them through the pouring water and the frosted glass. She was fingering through a catalogue from a recent exhibit at the Jidoor House gallery. Her son, the dark sheep of the family, had left it here some time ago, and she eyed it cautiously. Is this what those wasters are doing with their time these days? She snickered at the bourgeois idea of entertainment, and took a big bite out of her raisin bun. Crumbs fell onto the pages. When the girls approached, she could tell they were trouble. All colours and fancy trinkets. None of that for her. The two of them proved simply garish to her. As the bell in the door rang, she looked up, wiped her mouth free of crumbs, and put on her best fake smile.

  
  


"What you girlies want?" She drummed her fingers on the counter.

  
  


"A place to stay, Marge. Ain't that what this joint is for?" Relm looked testingly, mockingly, into the lady's eyes. A pompous old goat she was. A real troll.

  
  


"We haven't got any rooms left." Damn kids. She'd be a goat's ass if they were staying here tonight. She picked her teeth with her free hand and grinned. Aisha recoiled in disgust, but tried not to let it show on her face. Looked at Relm, questioningly. She picked up her pack and turned to leave.

  
  


"Then why are you just sitting here, then? Ain't got anything better to do?" Relm could feel the buzzing of her anger. She sloshed her dripping feet around on the floor.

  
  


"I'm telling you, Missus . . ."

  
  


"Let's just go, Relm." Aisha grabbed her soaked arm.

  
  


"No way." Relm planted her feet firmly. "We're not going anywhere until this witch levels with me." She leaned forward, planting two tiny ringed hands on the counter and looked the woman straight in the eyes. "'Cause you're a nice little jewel, aren't you, Sugar?"

  
  


"No room here. Get outta here!" Relm could smell the tobacco and contempt on her breath. A flood of calm rushed over her. Looked into the woman's eyes and grinned, devilishly. The lady could see a warm red power engulf the frail, wiry girl. She held her breath. Feared the young woman's rage. Had a feeling like awaiting a typhoon.

  
  


"Yeah, let's go, Aisha. This place is a dump anyway." The lady only stared, stupefied. Relm chuckled. Aisha secured her things and pushed through the door, shielding her head from the rain. Relm stood back, brushed her coat off. Pulled her linen around herself and rang it in her hands. Pools of water hit the wood panel floor. Tha lady stared, gritting her teeth. She glared.

  
  


"You should leave, Ma'am." Cautiously eyeing the girl. 

  
  


"My pleasure." Relm pulled back one of her muddy combat boots and levelled the waste basket. Sending it across the room, papers everywhere. "Have a nice day, Hon!" She turned and stormed out of the porch, hair blowing in the wind outside. In her chair, the woman fumed. Insulant brats. Parents did some job on her. Really! Obviously from Jidoor. What a mouth on her!

She turned back to her catalogue.

  
  


"Don't know what the world is coming to, I don't." She continued eating her bun.

  
  
  
  


Outside the girls were pressing on through the rain and puddles of muck. "Don't ever do that again, okay? I can't take the locals here." Aisha flew her hands into the air in Relm's general direction. "You had no idea what she might have done. She probably keeps a knife under the counter."

  
  


"Yeah, her or her half-brother, Otis." Relm chuckled. Aisha couldn't help but laugh too.

  
  


"What sort of place have you dragged me, anyway? This whole town isn't fit for human life."

  
  


"No, probably not. But it sure is one wild ride!" Relm stopped walked. Gestured to the tall brick building before them. A sign hung, flailing in the breeze. Cursive letters. The Ships Inn. "Here's where we'll stay for the night! Not bad, eh?"

  
  


"No . . ." Aisha glanced inside the ground window. Thick glass gave a hint at a warm yellow light. Smoky figures moving around tables. Noise emitted through the solid oak door. A violin, no, a mandolin. The place seemed to be buzzing with life. "It looks a lot better than I expected it to."

  
  


"Then let's go. Hustle, girl!" 

  
  


They quickly picked up their tired feet and walked inside, the door creaking from many happy openings. 

  
  
  
  



	5. Her Mouth

**Disclaimer: **The characters contained in this story are the sole property of Square (except for those which I have created, of course). No copyright infringement is intended. I'm only "borrowing" them for the purpose of storytelling.****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Chapter Four**

  
  


**"Her Mouth"**

  
  
  
  
  
  


The girls sat around in their newly rented two-bed room in The Ships Inn. Relm was busying herself with the cracks in the paint. Peeling away the beige, revealing the aqua green paint. Much nicer, she thought. What was with people and their choices anyway? Was there no accounting for taste? It made her want to vomit. Spew.

  
  


Aisha had been in the bathroom for much too long, Relm decided. "You take that long to peel the paint off your face?" she barked at the chipped beige door. "Jeez, girl. What's with you Jidoorians, anyway? Too much time on your hands?"

  
  


"Shut it, you punk." Aisha burst from behind the door, toothbrush in hand. Hair in braids. "I'm not wearing that much face-paint. And look at yourself, Relm. At least mine isn't really paint!"

  
  


"Just as well, then." They glared at each other for a moment, snarling. Enemies didn't have half the resources as those friends, and they took explicit pride in this fact. Their jagged catcalls and otherwise verbal fencing brightened the otherwise stale conversation. Then laughter, always laughter. The benefit of being openly nasty was obvious to Relm.

  
  


Aisha returned to the sink, spit, and plunked the toothbrush back onto the counter. Tossing her deep brown braids over her shoulder, she flopped onto the bed next to Relm. Mattress creaking, springs threatening through thin fabric. "So what's the plan for tonight, then? We just gonna crash in here? I don't know about you, but I'm pretty . . . "

  
  


"...Tired? You cow! You can't be tired already!"

  
  


"We walked all the way from Jidoor today!"

  
  


"No excuse!"

  
  


"Fine. Whatever. You can go downstairs and drink dirty gin with the old creepy men, but I want to sleep, dammit!"

  
  


"Suit yourself, Aish. It could be fun. Live a little." Relm snapped a chip of paint between her fingers. Awaited her friend's rebuke.

  
  


"You always say that, and I do live quite fine, Relm. But not tonight, alright?"

  
  


"Fine then. Suit yourself." Relm shrugged, got up, and began to fix her hair in odd shapes with a number of magenta clips. Aisha sighed and began to change into her pajamas, brown linen to match her hair. Relm squeezed a portion of teal hair colouring onto her hand and began to vigorously apply it, a green braid. A Terra extension. She smiled a full devilish grin. An Esper-woman hairdo for an Esper-woman-finding town. Laughed into the mirror. Those crazy cats.

  
  


"What's so funny, Relm?"

  
  


"Nuthin'"

  
  


"No?" Aisha settled into the bunk a pulled the sheets around her. "And hey, for someone who was just chastising me about all the makeup I was wearing, you aren't exactly low-maintenance yourself!"

  
  


"Funny, Aish. Just call me the pot who called the kettle black, then." Relm fumbled with the small bag of cosmetics Aisha had dumped on the counter, and removed a tube of lipstick. "Hey, can I use this?"

  
  


"Sure." Aisha shook her head. Relm was impossible sometimes. A real jewel.

  
  


"You know, sometimes I feel like being someone else, you know, like not Relm anymore. Tonight I think I'll be someone else."

  
  


"Like who?"

  
  


"Well, I have this lipstick now. These crimson lips make me feel more cosmopolitan. Maybe I'll be you." She flashed a grin at Aisha. Her eyes simply buzzed with excitement.

  
  


"You haven't half the stature you need to be me, girl. Or the good looks." She grinned back.

  
  


"Oh, Fuddleheads!" Relm tossed the tube at her friend's head. "You're so mean to me!" But she laughed and threw her head back in drama, so Aisha knew it was okay. Relm plunked herself next to Aisha on the bed. "How about Rouge?" She flicked her hair back with a flourish. "Rouge Arrowny, the accomplished, and quite dashing, young artist from Jidoor."

  
  


"Sounds fine." Aisha yawned, "Just stay out of trouble, okay chicky?"

  
  


"Me? Trouble? Never in your life, Aish." They laughed.

  
  


"Well, either way, I'll be right here if you need me."

  
  


"Got it, babe."

  
  


Relm strode into the lounge, made furtive glances around. Eyed the scene, then slid up to the bar. Pouty-faced and pensive she received a pert glass of brandy. Spun round on her stool, to face the dance floor. Two men with a guitar and a mandolin were duelling out a high-step song. Several lively folks were tearing up the floor. Not such a bad place, Relm decided, not at all. So what if Zozo was damp and not so respectable? The parties were lively, at least. Relm found this to be quite an asset, sure enough.

  
  


She was gathered to the floor by a glance. A young-ish man, about twenty something. He winked her about and they stepped a few paces around. Relm shot him a genuine smile. Mouth creasing ever deeply. 

  
  


The music stopped. "You dance well, missus." He chuckled, flashing pearly whites.

  
  


"Liar."

  
  


"No, ma'am. Not me, not always, anyway." He laughed, bouncing. His deep brown form a slender type of music. "Though that seems to be the prevalent form of communication in these parts."

  
  


"Tell me about it, pal." Relm fingered her braids, hand hair.

  
  


"Listen, you want to sit with me and the boys? They're over there." He motioned long and to the corner.

  
  


"Sure."

  
  


Relm settled deep into the booth next to dark man, eyed the others. Two others, a tanned older man, and a sandy youth, about the other's age. She smiled, nodded to them a greeting. They eyed her incredulously. Like a butterfly in a fishbowl.

  
  


"So..."

  
  


"Rouge, my name's Rouge."

  
  


"So, Rouge. This is everyone. My name's Earic. This is..."

  
  


"Keil." The sandy blond man smiled. "Charmed. You're something else, girl."

  
  


"Save it, Keil. I don't flatter easily." She laughed, glanced at the older man, with the ruddy complexion. "I'm sorry. Didn't get your name . . . " 

  
  


"Charles." He said, slowly. "You seem a bit young to be here by yourself, girl." He sucked back on a smoke, balancing it toward his palm.

  
  


"Hmph." Relm was crestfallen, briefly. Her mouth creased, a frown.

  
  


"Yeah, Rouge." Earic puffed, "You can't be any more than eighteen, am I right?" He chuckled.

"Well, sixteen actually, but whose counting." Their eyes bulged, everyone. A silence. Charles drew back on his smoke again. Relm eyed him, her eyes fluttered. "Hey Charlie, can I have a drag of that?"

  
  


"Well . . . " He frowned, furrowed brow. She pursed lips, cocked one brow to the side. "Oh, alright. Here, kid." Relm tentatively reached forward. Took the small wrapped object, wafts of smoke billowing. A furnace, a swelling of air. She smiled, put it to her lips. Dragged, let out. Held her composure, though lungs begged to cough. Grinned, "Thanks, man."

  
  


"No problem." Charles regained control of the smoking joint. "You handle that well, for someone who has never smoked before in her life." Grinned devilishly at her. Something about his smile, she laughed. Flushed.

  
  


"That obvious?"

  
  


"'Fraid so."

  
  


Amused, they continued the conversation. The boys explained to her that they were making plans to head to the Colosseum in the morning, by foot. To try their luck. "We've not much to lose, us three." Earic chuckled. "Not so much down in the luck, but a bunch of free spirits. Starting afresh, ya know?"

  
  


"Yeah, a fresh start's great." Relm sighed, tilted her head. "But not for me, the Colosseum ain't! God, I've seen enough of that place for the rest of my life."

  
  


"You've been there?" Keil eyed her, doubting. "I don't believe you."

  
  


"You bet your patooie, I have! I went there back during the war, with a bunch of crazy cats called . . . Well, that's not important. A whole fool lot of them, anyway. None of that nonsense for me anymore, no way." Charles stared at her, silent. Pondering her character, it seemed. He took a draw and held out the smoke to Relm. 

  
  


"'Nother drag, maybe?"

  
  


"Sure." She inhaled deeply, coating her lungs. Flushed deeply, the air grew thicker. Her head felt light, mouth dry. She shook her head, pressed lips together. Held the smoke out to Charles, and waited for him to take it.

  
  


"You've got quite a mouth on you, anyway." Keil laughed.

  
  


"Oh, Like she hasn't heard that before . . . " Charles snarled. "Try something new for a change, Keil." He smirked in Relm's general direction. "Feeling it, are you Rouge?"

  
  


"Not me." She drew her lips back to a crimson smile, casually rubbed her eyes. "Well, maybe a little light headed. Just a touch."

  
  


"Thought so." He smiled, "Don't worry. You fake it better than most." He stood up, casually. "Well, boys. I'm off. You'd be wise to join me." He stretched his arms beneath the dark jacket, yawned. "Right? Early rise tomorrow . . . "

  
  


"Yeah, Charles. In a minute." Earic glanced at Relm. "If you want to join us, feel welcome. I sure you'd have a laugh there, if you'd only give it a chance." He pushed in his chair.

  
  


"Yeah, beats Zozo any day." Keil laughed, and pulled on his jacket. 

  
  


"Yeah maybe." Relm stood, watched them leave. Fiddled with her long teal braids. Saw that Charles was waiting at the bar to pay his tab. He glanced at her when he thought she wasn't looking, she caught his eye. He gave a small smile, rolled eyes in the direction of the bartender. Relm stood, motionless, watching. This man intrigued her, greatly. She was not one to simply drop something once intrigue, not by a long shot. The air, though smoky, was strangely light. Electric.

  
  


She eyed this curious man, smoking at the bar, who saw her again and laughed. Her mouth formed deep creases, and she too laughed. Then strode toward him, braids sailing. Settled herself next to him at the bar. 

  
  



End file.
